


Indelible Ink

by Galadriel



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Historians, Humor, Tattoos, Watchers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-03-25
Updated: 2001-03-25
Packaged: 2017-11-08 18:11:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/446021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel/pseuds/Galadriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The past imprints itself on Methos and Joe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Indelible Ink

**Author's Note:**

> Finally, a 'fic I think I won't be afraid to look at 48 hours from now. Possibly.
> 
> Indelible Ink is my first completed _Highlander_ 'fic, and hopefully not my last, since I adore spending time with the ROG. But don't tell Obi-Wan that. He might get a little... miffed. ^_^
> 
> Many, many thanks to Mo-chan for detailed historical timeline and _Highlander_ canon help.

  


The man threw a couple of bills on his table, placed a gummy glass unsteadily on its surface and pushed back his chair. He rammed a worn hat on top of his rumpled mass of hair, and nodded at the sole remaining waitress, the owner, and the other still-lingering customers as he weaved his way to the bar door. A chill wind slipped into the room, past the exiting patron. The door shut with an air of finality, separating the departing drunk from the sober group inside. Joe relinquished his perch behind the bar and wandered to the entranceway. A quick flick of a switch and the blue neon tubing trumpeting "Le Blues Bar" to the empty street went dark. He turned and surveyed the scene before him. One waitress gathering glasses covered in sticky fingerprints, one patiently waiting boyfriend, and one source of irritation. He sighed and approached his employee.

"I'll take it from here, Claire." Joe took the tray of glasses out of her hands, placed it upon a nearby table and gently nudged the waitress toward the door. "Grab your coat and go home. It's going to be a cold night, and I'm sure Philipp has waited around this old place for long enough." A young man rose from his barstool, coat in hand, clearly eager to get moving. The waitress paused for a second and glanced at the figure still sitting at the bar.

"Are you sure, Joe?" she asked. "I don't mind staying." Her companion, now only steps away from her, opened the coat and offered up the empty sleeves.

"What? Oh, yeah, yeah, don't worry about me. He's harmless." Joe grinned and watched Claire slip her arms into the coat. She patted her pockets absently, fished out her keys and leaned forward, brushing dry lips against his cheek.

"Yep. I'm as harmless as a baby." The figure at the bar leaned backward a little, tilting his head toward the small group. "No wait, not a baby. Something less helpless, but still non-threatening. Um... Got it. I'm as harmless as a puppy."

Joe sighed and rolled his eyes beseechingly at the ceiling. "G'night, guys. Claire, I'll see you tomorrow." He ushered them outside and watched as they walked down the pavement, waiting until they rounded the corner to shut the door against the rising wind. A few crumbling leaves blew over the threshold, caught in a wandering eddy. He threw the bolt into place and made his way down the length of the bar, gathering scattered bowls of peanuts and pretzels into a short row. Once they were out of the way, he grabbed a cloth and began sopping up the sticky puddles left by beer-swilling patrons.

Methos reached across the countertop and plucked a half-empty bowl of peanuts out of the line of salt-encrusted dishes sitting in front of Joe. He settled back down on his stool, dragging the nuts until they rested comfortably within reach. Minutes passed in which he watched Joe clean while he popped open shells with his thumbs. Joe, the inevitable grumble rising in the back of his throat, finally let go of his beer-soaked cloth and watched it flop listlessly in an oozing heap. He glared at his last customer. "Look, if you're planning to hang around here and watch me clean, you've got another thing coming. You can help or you can go." He jerked his thumb at the door. "You've consumed enough free beer to last two of your lifetimes, so pay up or pitch in, Methos. I don't give out free rides." He paused, waiting expectantly for the Immortal to shrug on his coat and push back the stool.

"You're absolutely right." Methos smiled and pushed his sleeves up to his elbows. Puzzled, Joe watched him lean forward and reach across the counter. Methos' fingers hovered briefly above the sopping cloth before passing it over for the snack bowls. Selecting a dish, he scooped it up, poured the contents into his own bowl and placed it back among its fellows. "There." He shelled another peanut, tossed it into his mouth and smiled at Joe.

Rather than getting the expected rise out of the Watcher, his movements merely redirected Joe's attention. He stared at Methos' bared wrists. "Say, _Adam_ ," he began, fishing out Methos' Watcher moniker, "What happened to your tattoo?" He reached out a hand and pulled one wrist toward himself. The pale flesh gleamed under the fluorescent lights as Joe examined it for traces of blue-black ink lurking underneath the skin.

"Laser surgery." Methos didn't skip a beat as he drew his hand out of Joe's grasp and hooked two fingers around the neck of his beer bottle. He took a swig, grimaced, and glanced over the label. "How can you serve this swill, Joe? If it was cold, well, you could pass it off as horse piss, but warm? It tastes like... like... Don't you have a decent refrigeration unit back there?"

"Come on, Methos, don't jerk me around." The grumble became a growl.

"What? Oh. No, seriously. Where do you think all the Watchers' money goes? It's not just funnelled into keeping you in such nice accommodations." He gestured at the larger room, taking in the stage, the tables and the bottles of alcohol lined up neatly on the shelves behind Joe's head. "See, you retire from the Watchers and they throw you a nice big party where you get a gold watch, a cake, and the first in a series of painless laser-removal sessions. Then you just sit back and wait for the monthly pension checks to start rolling in." Straightfaced, he raised the bottle of warm horse piss to his lips. But before the beer began to trickle down his throat he caught the look on Joe's face. He sighed, and the bottle hit the bar with a thump. "I'm Immortal, a concept which I would have thought you'd grasped by now. I heal, Joseph. How long do you think a tattoo can possibly last on an Immortal? And besides," he added, "no one just up and leaves the Order. Shouldn't you know that?"

"People retire. _Watchers_ retire."

"Oh yes, but they never _really_ leave. They simply become..." he paused, savouring the word, "... _inactive._ After all, it's not as simple as merely turning in your badge and gun at the front desk. You can't have former operatives wandering around in the big, bad world. What if they decided to go public? It's serious work, Joe. One person can't be allowed to put everything in jeopardy."

Joe ran a hand through his hair. "Come on, Methos. We're not violent people. We observe and record. We don't go after our own."

"In the 7th century, Watchers who left the Order invariably disappeared." Methos leaned in closer. "And their belongings -- their homes, their records, their livestock, their wives, their children -- vanished with them or were suddenly, inexplicably burned."

Joe shook his head in disbelief.

"Of course, in the 11th century, the Watchers adopted a more _humane_ approach to deserters. Instead of eradicating the person, they just removed the proof." He resumed tossing peanuts into his mouth.

Joe waited, but Methos appeared to have brought the history lesson to a close. He decided to try a little prompting. "Removed the proof, eh? I suppose they took back his talismans, his journals, his chronicles, his notes..."

"And his hand," Methos added conversationally. "They'd track down the rogue Watcher, bring him in front of the Tribunal and... remove his tattoo."

Joe shuddered, imagining the faces of the Tribunal, watching, waiting, observing and recording the screams as they held down the offender and brought the blade to bear on flesh and bone.

"Of course, he was free to go once he'd relinquished the offending body part." Methos paused, taking another long swig from the beer bottle. "And nowadays the Watchers are so very modern about these things. No more chopping off extraneous limbs. Ex-Watchers just... disappear."

"So why haven't we -- _they_ come after you? Why haven't you disappeared?"

"Joseph, my dear boy, I've had centuries of hiding from people who want to find me, and if I do say so myself, I'm quite good at it. And without that pesky mark," he proffered his wrist, "it's just that much harder to pick me out of a crowd." He grinned and rubbed his palms together. "Besides, the bloody thing barely lasted a week in the first place." Methos downed his drink, scooped up a handful of nuts, and slid off the barstool. "Anyway, it's getting late, and I should be going." He stuffed his arms into his coat, shrugged on the extra layer and turned up his collar against the coming night air. "Don't work too hard." He pounded Joe soundly on the shoulder. A few strides, and he was at the door.

"Wait." Methos paused in the entranceway as Joe organized his thoughts. "If the tattoo faded that fast, how did you keep us from noticing? I doubt you were a regular customer at the many fine tattoo parlours of Paris. Repeat business is one thing, but repeat business for the same tattoo over and over again?"

Methos smiled, swung the door open and leaned against the panelling, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his overcoat. He looked at Joe. "Rub-on transfers," he said and stepped out into the street. The door clicked closed behind him.

Joe stood alone in the dimly-lit room, the damp cloth clinging of its own free will to his palm. In spite of himself, he began to laugh.


End file.
